


Don’t You Want Me

by CrimsonCatastrophe



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst, Drunk England (Hetalia), Drunkenness, Dubious Consent, Fluff, M/M, Mutual Pining, Nontraditional/Nonrule Compliant Songfic, OCCD, Older Fic, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Politics, Slow Build, Smut, USUK - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-09
Updated: 2017-01-02
Packaged: 2018-08-14 02:08:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 17,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7994728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrimsonCatastrophe/pseuds/CrimsonCatastrophe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>America shows England just how much he wants him, lewdly.  Even if it takes a while…</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Friend or Foe?

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimers:  
> I don’t own Hetalia, which is property of Hidekaz Himaruya.  
> I don’t own the song, Don’t You Want Me, by The Human League.  
> Winston Churchill obviously owns himself and anything deemed his intellectual property.
> 
> Warnings:  
> This fic mentions colonial America, The American Revolutionary War, the World Wars, the EU Referendum/Brexit, etc.  
> The majority of this fic was written in April and early May.

England delicately sipped his tea while gently massaging his throbbing temples in slow, circular motions.  His tired green eyes scanned over the opinion polls and projected statistics regarding the upcoming EU referendum.  It seemed the population had yet to reach a clear-cut decision on the matter and were bitterly divided.  Lobbyists in favor of the UK remaining in the EU resorted to using scare tactics, and it appeared their latest was to claim that critical UK allies would abandon the UK if it ceased to remain part of the EU.  England's shoulders sagged, and the stiff muscles painfully protested even the minutest of movements.  England sighed in frustration and drained the last of the contents from his favorite teacup, even though the tea did little to soothe him.

_Bollocks.  Well, no matter, he wouldn't worry himself over fickle allies.  He had survived many years on his own before, and he could certainly do it again, if need be._

Even though his skull felt as if it was being crushed by forces rivaling America's super strength, England forced himself to continue reading.  Speaking of that git, England's large brow furrowed in exasperation when his eyes immediately focused on a statement issued by America's boss, which said the following in bold text: **"The U.S. strongly endorses and supports a strong UK as part of a strong EU."**   England felt the rage boiling in the pit of his stomach, and in a moment of ill-advised spontaneity, encouraged by the anger coursing through his veins, he roughly slammed his fist down onto the newspaper as if the force of the slam could somehow be transferred through the article to America's bloody stupid face.  However, the action only served to exacerbate his migraine and supplement it with a throbbing pain in his right hand.

_You bloody fucking tosser, after everything I've done for you, you should support me in whatever I decide.  Special Relationship, my arse...  You don't fucking give a damn about me; you probably never have.  Why don't you care about me like I have always done for you, you bloody ungrateful, self-absorbed bastard?_

England was suddenly startled and jolted from his bitter musing by the ringing of his mobile, which the Brit hastily retrieved from the pocket of his immaculately tailored trousers.  His boss's name stood out in stark contrast from the screen of the glowing device.  Before answering the call, England took a few deep breaths and forced his voice into a neutral tone in order to feign some semblance of his gentlemanly persona.  He then proceeded to press the answer call button and placed the cold device against his ear.  He could hear the shuffling of documents and the hushed mutterings of voices in the background before his boss finally spoke.

"Hello and good day to you, England.  If you have a moment, I have a matter of utmost importance to discuss with you, which involves the UK's continued endorsement of certain allies," England's boss inquired with false politeness.  However, it was clear that England's boss didn't truly care whether or not England had a moment to spare and fully expected him to be at his beck and call.

_Yes, what a bloody fucking nice day it is, what with all this political strife, constant and overwhelming workload, and traitorous allies.  Heh, I suppose there is no rest for a nation._

"Hello, and good _evening_ to you as well, _sir_.  Of course, I have time to discuss it.  Shall I meet you at your office then?" England inquired as he just barely managed to keep the sarcasm from fully bleeding into his tone.  If his boss had noticed it, the man had the good sense not to comment on it.

"That will suffice.  You are currently residing at your London residence, correct?"

"Indeed, I am."

"I will see you in twenty minutes, then," England's boss replied succinctly and promptly ended the call.

"Oh, bollocks," England muttered to himself and quickly gathered his things, while simultaneously grabbing his keys from the island counter.  He rapidly exited his home and hastily locked his front door before battling traffic to reach his destination.  He arrived with five seconds to spare and was greeted with the sight of his boss hunched over his desk, while parsing what appeared to be a highly confidential document and impatiently awaiting England's arrival.  The man did not look up from the document when England cleared his throat to announce his presence, and his boss merely gestured the Brit in with a wave of his hand.  England waited with quiet impatience for the man to acknowledge him.

"England, have you heard about this?  The press is already having a field day with this," England's boss inquired as he gestured to the documents clutched firmly in his hands.

_How the bloody fuck would I have heard of this when you haven't even fully informed me of what you're talking about, you absolute pillock?_

"I can't say that I have when I have not been fully informed on the matter," England said tersely and barely refrained from rolling his eyes at the man.

"It would seem that we need to seriously reevaluate some of our allies," the prime minister said in lieu of an explanation as he slid the documents across his desk to England.

England grabbed the documents and quickly began reading them.  The first document appeared to be a highly confidential message from America's Secretary of Defense to America's boss; the message questioned the validity of retaining the UK as an ally to the U.S. should the UK choose to leave the EU.  The second appeared to be a newspaper article, which was titled _They're Just Not That Into Us_ , from the Daily Mail that was published less than thirty minutes ago.  Upon further inspection, the newspaper article reiterated what was said in the first document that England clutched so tightly in his fists that his knuckles were white.  His face flushed red with anger as he stared down at the incriminating words that were written in bold text.

**Dear Mr. President,**

**In light of the UK's already declining influence in Europe as well as worldwide, the UK will be irrelevant and completely useless as an ally to the U.S. if it was to leave the EU.  In fact, it will become more of a liability than an ally.  Should that happen, I believe it would be in the best interest of the U.S. to cut all ties with the UK, should that occur.**

**Best regards, the U.S. Secretary Of Defense**  

_Why that bloody fucking, ungrateful wanker...  How **dare** he!_

"How do you wish to proceed?” The prime minister asked tentatively.

"If that is all, then I will _personally_ handle the matter," England seethed as a frightening aura, which could rival Russia's, radiated off the incensed Brit in tidal waves.

England's boss gulped inaudibly as he observed the enraged personification in front of him.  He hoped England wouldn't do anything too rash, but he was loath to voice such concerns in fear of incurring the Brit's wrath.  Therefore, he simply wordlessly dismissed the livid Brit and went back to his paperwork.  He had dealt with the personification long enough to know when to back off to protect himself.  England swiftly exited his boss's office and wrenched his mobile from his pocket.  He aggressively punched in America's number and impatiently waited for that arsehole to pick up.  As if to infuriate the Brit even further, America failed to answer, and the phone went to voicemail.

"Call me **_immediately_** ," England said, the acerbic vitriol dripping from his voice, as he promptly ended the call after leaving his message.

After waiting approximately thirty seconds and still having yet to hear from America, England punched in America's work number.  When the call finally went through, America's overly cheery secretary answered the phone.  Unfortunately for the secretary, England was in no mood to be derailed from giving America a piece of his mind.  He was also in no mood to entertain meaningless pleasantries or yank stupidity and needed an outlet for his anger _now_.

"Hello and how are you doing this fine day?  You have reached the office of..." The secretary began, but he was immediately cut off by an irascible Brit.

"Where in the bloody fucking hell is that git America?"

"I'm sorry, sir, but I don't follow you.  You are going to have to speak English.  What would you like to get America?  Wait a minute! Is this a terrorist call?  You mentioned blood, hell, and to get America.  We take these very seriously, and your call is being traced.”

England's mind went temporarily blank as he was stunned by the sheer obliviousness of the American on the other line, and he sputtered incoherently as his mind struggled to voice his thoughts through the burning rage that clouded his mind.  He almost could not believe that the American had the audacity to insult _his_ English.  England clenched the phone so tightly in his grip that he was vaguely surprised it did not snap in half.  It took every bit of the last remnants of his gentlemanly restraint for him to refrain from punching the nearest wall to attempt to alleviate his anger, but alas, he would have to wait until he saw America's face, which would be a much more satisfying endeavor.  After all, they say good things come to those who wait and all that rot.

"I am not a terrorist, you fucking idiotic yank.  Where is America?"  England spoke venomously while slowly annunciating each word as if he was talking to a complete wazzock, which he technically was.

"Aw, dude, that's good to hear!  It is between Canada and Mexico.  There is a lovely map of this great country on us.gov, and I can refer you to a map for the childrens that is easier to understand in case you..."

It was the _childrens_ bit that really did it in for England.  His vision became clouded by red, and his knuckles were whiter than the Cliffs of Dover.  For a moment, only the sound of England's harsh breathing and the joyously oblivious whistling of that moronic yank could be heard over the line before England suddenly began to slag of the secretary so ferociously that even his former pirate self would have been quaking in his jewel-encrusted boots, had he been on the recipient end of England's tirade.  Somewhere, in the more rational portion of his mind, it urged him to stop before he created an international incident, but he was simply too angry and hurt to care.

"And, you can tell that bloody fucking tosser, America, that the _Special Relationship_ is over between us! Do you hear that, America?  It is me who _doesn't_ need you!"  England continued to seethe.

But, in the back of his mind, he knew it was a bluff.  Ever since that blue-eyed tyke had chosen him to be his guardian, the boy had filled a hole in England like no one ever had, not that many had even bothered to try.  Now, he wondered if anyone else ever could.  England felt his eyes become misty when he thought of that bittersweet moment.  Unbeknownst to that chubby little boy who smiled brighter than the sun, he had taken England's heart as well as his hand on that fateful day, and he still had it centuries later, even though he didn't even want it.

"Um, of course I can hear you; you're yelling.  Who is calling?" The secretary said demurely, and England heard a slight sniffle, which was attempted to be disguised by a poorly timed cough.  Had he not been so hurt, England would have felt sympathy for the poor lad.

"The bloody fucking United Kingdom of **Great** Britain and Northern Ireland," England said smugly before slamming his finger onto the button to end the call.  The cold, harsh sound of static reverberated over the line before the secretary ended the call as well.

England sighed hopelessly and stomped his way down the street as he tried to calm himself down.  Several people gave the angry Brit strange looks, though there were undercurrents of empathy in many of their gazes.  Many a passerby suddenly found themselves inexplicably angry with Americans.  _Bloody yanks..._ However, England paid them no mind.  He needed to clear his head and calm his nerves, and he knew just the place to do it.  He quickened his pace and headed in the direction of one of his favorite pubs.  He would just stop in for a pint, just to wet the lips.  As it turned out, his cruel boss hadn't been joking when he had said he would increase and continue to increase beer duties and taxes for every time England got thoroughly pissed.  

_It was absolute bollocks.  It was...  What was that word that America was so fond of?  Intolerable, it was intolerable._

England physically cringed at the thought of that word due to its negative connotations.  His chest suddenly felt tight, and it was harder to breathe.  A lone tear slid down his cheek as the flashbulb memories, which were associated with that word, flooded England's mind.  The past and present suddenly blurred together, and he could barely discern one from the other.  It didn't matter anyway; apparently he was hated and not needed by America in both time periods.  England swiftly dashed to the pub so quickly that he could have put an Olympic sprinter to shame.  England purposely strode through the doorway, seated himself at the bar, slammed a few pounds onto the granite countertop, and demanded a pint of the establishment's strongest brew.  It had started out as an innocuous pint; it always did.  But, then, the pints had multiplied exponentially.  England could vaguely hear the barkeep complaining about the sudden increase in beer duties/taxes and how at the rate things were going, it would put him out of business.  And, that made England immensely sad.  So, he downed more ale.  England sighed contentedly as the alcohol burned his throat, temporarily soothed his troubled mind, and dulled his senses.  His face flushed a telling shade of pink, and he felt a pleasant warmth begin to engulf him, which only encouraged him to drink more.

"Oi, barkeep, another ale," England slurred a bit too loudly.

The bartender hesitated before pouring the Brit a diluted, watered-down ale.  He couldn't ascertain why, but somehow it felt unpatriotic to deny this particular patron another drink.  However, he and his coworker could clearly see that this lad had already had too much.  As soon as it was placed on a coaster in front of him, England downed half the beverage in one go.  As he became even more intoxicated, he slowly began slumping in his seat until he eventually hunched over the counter with his chin resting against the cool, smooth granite.  One fist clutched tightly around his half-drank ale, while his other hand rested on the countertop with his thumb lying flat and curved inward as his index and middle fingers began to idly stroke the surface of the bar back and forth in nonsensical patterns.  Normally a gentleman such as himself would not allow himself to be in such a position, as poor posture was more suited to ruffians like America, but England was too drunk to concern himself with such trifling matters.

"Am I British or European?  God, I don't know!"  England suddenly mused rather loudly and dramatically to himself.  He continued boisterously rambling to himself, as the alcohol lowered his inhibitions further.

"Um, is he going to be ok?  He looks pretty pissed," the younger bartender asked as he warily scrutinized the drunken Brit.

"Oh, he is more than pissed.  He's properly rat-arsed.  Someone needs to come collect him," his elder, more experienced co-worker replied as he also surveyed their inebriated, _spirited_ patron.

"So, do we _just kick_ his arse out then or..." the younger bartender trailed off uncertainly as he felt badly about calling the police on the poor lad.

"Eh, go start closing up.  I'll handle this," the older male said nonchalantly while giving a dismissive wave in the younger employee's direction.

The younger bartender gave one last furtive glance between his co-worker and the drunken patron before scurrying off to begin closing the establishment.  The elder employee watched from his peripheral vision as his co-worker scampered off before he began approaching the intoxicated customer.  He knew from experience that some drunks could get really violent, and he hoped this guy would simply phone someone to collect him and leave without property damage or causing a ruckus.  From a cursory glance at the lad, it wasn't conspicuous, whether or not he had a mobile on his person.  Steeling his nerves and schooling his facial expression into a neutral one, the bartender came to stand before England and rapped his knuckles against the cool surface of the countertop to get England's attention.

"Hey there, lad.  We are about to close.  How about you or I call someone to come collect you?  Want someone in particular such as family, friends, significant other, or _someone_?" the bartender cajoled England.

England was startled by the sound and swiftly turned to stare blearily at the man in front of him.  But, due to his drunken induced lack of coordination, he barely managed to catch himself before almost falling off the barstool he was sitting on.  The bartender reached out a hand to steady England, but England just swatted it away.  The man put his hands up in what he hoped would be taken as a pacifying gesture and stared levelly at England.  He certainly did not want to unnecessarily provoke this particular patron.

"I want someone, but he doesn't want me.  Said I'm not useful or significant enough for him, he says.  I bloody gave that git everything, _everything_ , you hear.  And, he just says he doesn't want or need me anymore, like I never did enough or loved him enough.  That sodding, bleeding git got where he is because of me, _me_ , I tell you.  I just wanted to be appreciated or loved by him.  Is that so much to ask?  But uh-uh.  That wanker apparently thinks so," England slurred emotionally in a drunken rant.

"Come on now, lad, stiff upper lip," the bartender said consolingly as he felt a pang of sympathy for the distraught man.

However, England was having none of it and would not allow himself to be comforted.  Well, at least not by this man anyway.  He wanted, and if he was to be honest with himself, _needed_ the comfort only a certain nation could provide.  As it was, it seemed said nation only wanted England when he could get something from him and had no interest in England when England had nothing left to give him.  England clutched his glass tighter when he felt the tears well up in his eyes as painful memories began to haunt him again.  In a desperate bid to keep them at bay, England downed the remaining contents of his beer in less than a nanosecond.

"Whoa there, lad," the bartender said worriedly as he watched England practically inhale the drink.  But, England was too lost in his memories to properly hear him.


	2. Memories from Long Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> America shows England just how much he wants him, lewdly. Even if it takes awhile...

_"Want someone in particular such as family, friends, significant other, someone?"  The bartender's words echoed in his mind and triggered memories England would rather not relive.  Oh, he wanted someone in particular all right, but it would appear that someone didn't want him.  He'd been family, an ally, and a special someone; he'd been everything only for him to cruelly take it all away..._

_"America is my little brother," England said firmly glaring at France with a sadistic glint in his eye and daring the Frenchman to challenge him._

_"Non, Amérique is my little brother," the French bastard had the audacity to claim._

_"Fine, we'll let him decide then," England said while gesturing toward the frightened, young, blond boy with the big, bright, misty, blue eyes._

_"Well, that's exactly as I want.  Even you saying that was all according to my plan," the frog agreed._

_England sized America up before he began to mutter in an ancient tongue in an attempt to lure the boy to him.  However, to his immense surprise, the baby started to cry loudly and began backing away from England.  France had then scolded England for scaring the little boy and tried to gain the upper hand by enticing the babe with food, which unfortunately seemed to work as the child ceased weeping and began to curiously approach the Frenchman.  England lambasted himself for not thinking of that, but deep down he knew his food would be no match for France's cuisine.  In that moment, England knew he would lose.  However, as he sat alone with his arms crossed over his knees and his head in his hands, England felt a firm tug on his sleeve._

_"Are you okay?" The babe asked softly with earnest concern visible in those sky blue eyes of his.  And in that moment, England knew he would love this boy like no other._

_"I'm going to cherish you, protect you, provide everything for you, and teach you how to be a proper gentleman," England said resolutely as he held the sleepy, contented babe closer to his breastbone and rocked him gently in a soothing motion._

_"Why?" The child had asked drowsily with a hint of awe in his voice as he snuggled closer to England._

_"Because, I am your big brother now, and we are family.  Go on and say it, if you want," England cajoled the child before looking away as a faint blush dusted across his cheeks._

_"Family," the child said uncertainly as if he was testing the word out._

_"Yes, lad," England had said proudly while radiantly smiling down at the bundle of sunshine he clutched in his arms, which caused the child to let out a pleased giggle and beam up at him._

_"I luv yew, big brother Engwand," baby America said with such adoration that it made England tear up as he gazed into those guileless, earnest, big, blue eyes of his new colony._

_The boy would probably never know just how much the words meant to England or how deeply they affected him.  When he had first learned that he had brothers, so close to him, baby England had been ecstatic.  No more would he have to be alone in such a harsh, unforgiving land or fight for survival all by himself; he would finally have someone to support and love him.  After that discovery, he had hoisted his bow and quiver of arrows over his shoulders and grabbed his preparations before making the journey to see his brothers.  However, they had repulsed him with weapons, rocks, and cruel words.  England had had to build his strength and force them into a relationship with him, which had naturally soured their overall relationship with animosity lingering behind it like a shadow.  But, America was like a second chance at having the family England felt that he had been deprived of; America had chosen him._

_However, several years had passed before England found himself wounded with his feet digging into the muddy ground and staring down the barrel of a musket as the rain cascaded down upon him, and his beloved colony glared at him defiantly, while firmly keeping his finger on the trigger and the musket pointed at England._

_"Hey, England, I want my freedom.  I am no longer a child or your little brother anymore.  I'll become independent from you from now on," America declared venomously as he glared down at England._

_"No, I won't allow it," England said hysterically as he charged America with his bayonet and knocked the weapon from America's hands._

_"This is why I say you don't follow things through, you idiot.  But, there is no way I can shoot you," England said in a heartbroken manner as he stared at America's shocked face.  For a few ephemeral moments, only the sound of England's harsh breathing and the pouring rain could be heard before England threw his weapon to the ground, dropped to his knees, and began to cry._

_"England," America had begun to say before trailing off and gazing at England with what might have been a hint of pity.  But, England couldn't be sure; he had thought he'd known that boy._

_"Dammit!  Why!  Dammit!"  England had demanded as tears streamed down his cheeks, and it felt as if his heart had been painfully ripped out of his chest and then trampled upon.  And, in a way, it had._

_"You used to be so great," America had said before turning his back on England and leaving England crying, alone, wounded, and heartbroken in the pouring rain.  Unbeknownst to America, England had remained in that spot for days until France took pity upon him and dragged him inside._

_Over a century later, England once again had found himself propelled into another relationship with America._

_"So, I guess you heard about the attacks on my ships and the declaration of war on Germany?"  America said as he stood across from England in the stuffy, cramped room with only a small, wooden table, which was littered with maps and strategic plans, between them._

_"Indeed, everyone has," England replied monotonously with an undercurrent of relief hidden in his tone._

_"Guess that makes us allies now," America had said as he went around the table and slung an arm around England._

_"Seems so," England had replied evasively.  But, he could not help the pleasant warmth that welled up in his chest at being something to America again._

_America had laughed heartily and flashed England a thumbs up sign while pulling the Brit closer and holding him protectively.  England had allowed the maneuver and relished in it for a few blissful moments before scowling and pulling away.  England should have known that their tentative friendship, if one could even call it that, would not last.  But, he was lonely and needed an ally.  Plus, he had harbored a small crush upon America and longed to have a more intimate relationship with him.  While England himself could not speak of this to America, England's boss had more or less done so when they became allies._

_England had pretended to be embarrassed and not fond of the idea, and America did not outright reject him this time.  And as such, their alliance to the war effort had continued, and England had vaguely allowed himself to hope for a future, especially one involving America.  However, the alliance hadn't turned out the way England had desperately hoped it would._

_"Deep in the hearts of the people of these islands lay the desire to be truly reconciled before all men and all history with their kindred across the Atlantic Ocean, to blot out the reproaches and redeem the blunders of a bygone age, to dwell once more in spirit with them, to stand once more in battle at their side, to create once more a union of hearts, to write once more a history in common.  That was our heart's desire," one of England's greatest orators had said on America's birthday._

_Nonetheless, America eventually left after the war and went into isolationism during the 30's and partially during the Second World War as well.  England had felt betrayed, and he desperately wanted to forget about America.  But, he just couldn't bring himself to completely do so._

_Several years later, when America joined the Second War after his Pearl Harbor was destroyed by Japan, England had been both relieved and insulted when circumstances beyond his control necessitated that he had to cooperate with America once again.  At first, their relationship was rocky, and England had felt vindicated in his resentment the first time America had inadvertently witnessed England's wounds from a time when he had stood alone against Germany's onslaught.  However, the guilty, remorseful look upon America's face doused any hopes of that, and England had taken to masking his injuries and hiding his pain.  For all his renowned obliviousness, America had picked up on this and hinted that they needed to work more closely with each other and trust each other more.  England's boss had concurred and coined the term 'Special Relationship’.  England had been skeptical and far more cynical than he once was, but he still longed for such closeness with America that he naively allowed himself to hope.  When the war had finally ended, America did not immediately leave him, which bolstered England's newly found, but ill-advised hope for a future with America._

_"We won," England had said in slight awe, almost as if he couldn't really believe it._

_"I'm so happy; I could kiss you', America had said jovially with his eyes sparkling with happiness, hope, awe, and perhaps even a bit of love._

_Though, England admitted it could have been just a trick of the light, he was far less inclined to believe it than he normally would have once America pressed his lips to England's and held him protectively against his warm, strong chest to stabilize him.  The kiss started off chastely, a hesitant brush of lips against lips with both of them allowing the other ample opportunity to pull away at any moment, should he wish to do so.  However, neither man did.  And, soon the kiss had evolved into a passionate waltz with lips, teeth, and tongues.  America breathed safety, security, strength, and perhaps even a bit of love into England while England wholeheartedly gave his love, as it was the only thing left that he had to give.  And, for once in his adulthood, that had seemed to be enough for America.  When they both parted for air, America had rested his forehead against England's and promised to help England rebuild, piece by piece.  In England's mind, they had become something almost akin to lovers even though they had yet to go further than that one kiss, which England cherished still to this day.  And, despite their rather frequent political disagreements and constant squabbling, England had still hoped to fully consummate their bond.  Then, that document had happened, and England was embarrassed to admit that a part of him hadn’t expected it. Once a deserter, always a deserter._

"Have you got someone to come collect you, lad?" The bartender reiterated as he slowly annunciated each word. 

Had...  He'd _had_ someone until that someone left him high and dry.

England failed to respond verbally, although a plethora of emotions briefly flitted across his face.  The bartender noticed a mobile precariously resting against England's hip and leaning halfway out of the pissed lad's trouser pocket.  He briefly debated calling the younger employee for backup so that he could attempt to grab the lad's mobile and see if there was anyone who he could call for this guy because something in him felt wrong about getting the police involved.  Although, perhaps luckily for him, the mobile started ringing.  And, the sound as well as vibrations seemed to finally be enough to wrench the patron from his drunken stupor.  _Alfred F. Jones [America, bloody git]_ flashed across the screen to the immediate confusion of the bartender and the younger employee who was attempting to surreptitiously eavesdrop.


	3. Oh, Artie, Not Again

America yawned, stretching languidly, as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes.  The television remote, a video game controller, and several hamburger wrappers cascaded to the floor as America got up to attempt to work out the kinks from his neck and shoulders, which always occurred whenever he fell asleep on the couch for more than a couple of hours.  Groggily, he grabbed Texas off of the coffee table, placed it on the bridge of his nose, and glanced at his iPhone that was resting snugly in its dock.

"Shit!" He exclaimed when he saw that it was 7:00 p.m. on Saturday night; he had slept the entire day away.

America had wanted to go out and have a few drinks on Friday night, but everyone was too lame to go.  He had first thought of inviting England, but he didn't want to encourage England's drunkenness.  Secretly, America worried about England, especially England's exacerbating drinking problem.  Then, he had texted Japan and a few other nations.  Japan had evasively replied with an, _'I'll see what I can do'_ , while everyone else ignored him because they were probably uncool and in bed or doing something boring.  So, America then had decided to PostMate McDonald's and play video games with Tony, while he waited for a solid confirmation from Japan.  However, he had become too absorbed in the game and continued playing into the early hours of the morning until he had finally fallen asleep.

"Dammit," America muttered to himself as he grabbed his phone to check if he had any missed calls or messages.

His stomach rumbled in protest, and he placed a hand on his belly in a vain attempt to soothe it while he looked over his missed calls and text messages.  There were a few miscellaneous ones, none from Japan, a lot from his boss, and one from England.  America felt a sense of dread when he saw the numerous ones from his boss since his boss normally let him have his weekends free, unless there was an emergency.  America gave himself the once-over and was relieved that he felt and looked fine, which meant that his people were not under attack or facing a huge disaster.  However, his relief was short lived when he remembered the missed call from England.  America felt a sense of panic at the thought of something happening to England and quickly checked the voicemail that England had left him.

_"Call me immediately!"_ The message had said venomously with a hint of hysteria to it, which only increased America's unease.

America hurriedly turned on the television to the international news and sighed in relief and minor annoyance when, aside from the sudden sharp increase in beer duties, England's country seemed to be doing just fine.  England had probably gotten drunk and just wanted to rant at America or he needed him to escort his drunken ass home.  Knowing England, it was probably both.  America briefly wondered what he did this time to upset his boss, but he decided to call England back first to make sure he had gotten home and stuff, as any good hero would.  America quickly pressed the call button under England's contact and plopped down onto the soft, black leather sofa.  He gazed out the large window at the busy streets of New York City and tapped his foot impatiently as he waited for England to answer.

England stared unseeingly at his mobile before his vision seemed to focus on the name illuminated on the screen, and he angrily snatched the device from his trouser pocket before it fell to the floor due to the force of its vibrations.  Clutching the mobile so tightly in his fist that it creaked in protest, England slammed his finger onto the answer call button with such a force that it almost fractured the screen.  The younger employee winced in sympathy for the device, while the older bartender took the opportunity to take away England's empty glass while he was distracted.  So far, the lad had yet to damage any property, and the bartender would like to keep it that way.

"Yo, Iggy, the hero..." America had started to say in that obnoxious, jovial tone of his.

"You," England growled into the phone and cut America off mid sentence, as he glared down at the mobile with his green eyes blazing with animosity and unconcealed emotional turmoil.  Although he was seething in rage, England was torn between excoriating America and simply breaking down in tears.

"Me," America replied obliviously, while cocking his head to one side like a confused puppy as he waited for England to continue. 

"You bloody fucking ungrateful, sodding git!  How dare you!  Urging me to stay in this goddamn problematic union when you would never even dream of joining something like this, where do you get off?  You forcibly leave at the first sign of things not going your way, just like in that fucking revolution of yours, you fucking wanker.  After everything that I've done for you, you dare give me a thinly-veiled ultimatum and threaten to just cast me aside _again_ like I'm _worthless_ and never did enough for you and...  Fuck you!"  England slurred drunkenly into the receiver, while pitifully hiccupping at the end of his tirade as the anger slowly died down to be replaced by hurt and betrayal.

"Huh?" America asked in confusion, as he had no idea what England was talking about.

The sound of harsh breathing and stifled sobs was his only answer, and America tapped his chin in contemplation as he tried to figure out why England was so upset.  He couldn't recall demanding England stay in any type of union or whatever.  A few weeks ago, he did ask England to play _League of Legends_ with him, but surely England could not be that mad over something like that.  America sighed in irritation when England failed to elaborate, and he was becoming grouchy as he felt a headache coming on from hunger as his stomach growled loudly.

"Fuck you, you arsehole.  You only think about yourself," England muttered bitterly when it appeared he had calmed down somewhat.

"I dunno what I did this time, but you don't have to call me up just to cuss at me, ya know.  Look, England, if you don't have anything to actually talk about and are just drunk at your house, then go lie down," America started off indignantly before remembering the point of calling England in the first place.

"You are at your house, right?" America questioned with a hint of unmistakable concern bleeding into his voice.

"Whadu you care fer," England slurred tiredly through a haze of tears and intoxication.

"Because, I'm the hero," America said as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

_"And, because I care about you,"_ America didn't say, but thought it nonetheless.

"Some hero you are," England muttered forlornly under his breath as he allowed the mobile to drop onto the counter so that he could curl in around himself.  

"England, are you ok?" America yelled loudly in alarm when he was startled by the sudden clatter of England's mobile hitting hard granite.  

England mumbled incoherently and rested his head in his folded arms atop the cool countertop.  When that response failed to reassure him, America began to shout even louder, much to the annoyance of the bartender and the younger employee who cringed and covered his ears in an attempt to save his hearing.  England tried really hard to focus on what the voice was saying, but he was distracted and could only focus on the feeling of malaise.  The loud sounds caused sharp spikes of pain to reverberate through his skull, and his head throbbed in sync with the increasing decibel level of the frantic shouting.  Everything else in companion seemed vague, and the room was spinning.  His face felt hot, and he was dizzy and felt nauseated.  His chest felt tight, and he felt overwhelmed by his emotions.  In an attempt to just get away from it all, England further curled in on himself and wrapped his arms around himself in an attempt to self-soothe, and he whimpered pathetically when his head made contact with the hard countertop.

"England!" America yelled so loudly that France could probably hear him all the way across the English Channel.

"Oi, lad, belt up!  It's bloody past midnight here," the bartender said gruffly once his patience had reached its maximum limit.  He just wanted to go home and sleep. 

_Bloody hell, that yank had quite a set of lungs on him._

"Hey, dude, who's this?" America asked, confused when he did not recognize this new voice.

The bartender muttered angrily under his breath at the thoroughly confused and thoroughly _American_ sounding voice.  He had really misjudged this situation and cocked it up.  Typically, he closed the pub at eleven at night on Saturdays, but he had decided to allow this particular patron to finish his last drink since it was the weekend and all that rot.  He had even humored the lad and listened to him rant about some sort of breakup.  He had thought the poor young man would hurriedly polish off his drink, bid him thanks, and be on his way.  But, this was turning into something straight off the Jeremy Kyle show.  And, now he owed the younger employee overtime.

"Listen, boy, your er friend here is really pissed and really needs someone to come collect him," the bartender began trying to muster up some last vestiges of politeness.

"Yeah, I dunno what I even did, but he's really mad and grumpy for some reason.  Hahaha, collect him.  Dude, I don't think he'd make a good collector's item since he is boring, and one time at this world meeting..."

_What in the bloody hell was this bloke talking about?  World meeting, was he some sort of government official?  Well, he was certainly dimwitted enough to be._

"I think they say wasted or drunk and to pick someone up in the States," the younger employee whispered helpfully as he came to stand behind his disgruntled coworker.

"Listen, lad, your friend is really drunk.  Could you or someone come to pick him up?" The bartender tried again.

"Dude, why didn't you say so?  What bar is he at?" The American inquired, sounding far less chipper than before.

America groaned in annoyance as he tapped the address of the bar into his notes and navigation apps.  Even if he used one of his military planes, it would still take hours to get there.  Technically, his boss would have to authorize its use, unless he could get a two-thirds majority of Congress, which was both too time consuming and unlikely.  He sighed in resignation when he realized he was just going to have to borrow one.  It wasn't like he was _stealing_ since they were _his_ planes anyway, or at least that was how he tried to rationalize it in his mind.


	4. Where Words Fail, Music Speaks

About three hours later, America arrived at the address he had been given, and he parked the borrowed vehicle, which he had rented from the US Embassy in London, as close to the entrance as possible since he figured England was probably still too drunk to be able to walk.  After turning off the engine and making sure the vehicle was in park, America exited the car and loudly slammed the door, while stretching his sore legs and neck since the car was too small for his tastes.  The bartender, who had been nodding off, was startled into awareness by the slamming of the door and an obnoxiously loud American voice. 

"Hey, dudes, the hero has arrived," America loudly proclaimed, as his eyes scanned the pub for that familiar mop of messy, blond hair and green eyes, before they settled on England, who was nursing a _free_ drink that the bartender had resorted to _offering_ in order to cajole the Brit into staying and waiting for his _friend_ to escort him home.

"What in the bloody hell took you so long, yank?  Did you come here all the way from across the pond or something?" The bartender asked sarcastically.

"Yeah, but I flew over the Atlantic Ocean instead of a pond though," America answered bluntly without a hint of sarcasm in his voice.

The bartender simply gaped at him, and he was sure his younger coworker would have taken the piss out of him for it, if he hadn't dismissed the boy a couple hours ago.  England looked up at the sound of America's voice, and his tired, sad green eyes glared angrily at him.  America felt his heart lurch as his eyes scanned over England, noting his disheveled and miserable-looking appearance.  America always hated it when England drank, and although he would probably never admit it out loud, he worried about England immensely.  He just didn't understand why England felt the need to imbibe so much.

"Whaddu yer doin' here," England slurred petulantly as he crossed his arms over his chest and refused to give America the satisfaction of looking at him.

"I'm here to escort your drunk ass home, Eng... er Arthur," America said, catching his slip-up at the last minute.

"I don't need you; I don't need any of you.  I am the mighty British Empire," England tried to say nonchalantly, but America didn't miss the lone tear that slid down England's flushed cheek. 

As if to prove his point, England tried to stand.  But, his equilibrium was off, and he swayed dangerously to one side.  Although he remained standing, his posture resembled that of the Leaning Tower of Pisa.  America quickly went to England's side and slung a steadying arm around the Brit's shoulder to ensure that he wouldn't topple over.  England halfheartedly tried to shrug off the American's arm, but he couldn't deny that he liked the strong, solid weight of it holding him close.

_How many times have I wanted this and fantasized about this?  England mused wryly to himself._

"So, how much does he owe on his tab?" America asked the bartender as he subconsciously pulled England closer.

"That'll be 80£," the bartender replied and was inwardly thankful that the yank had the foresight to inquire about it since he had forgotten this Arthur bloke had yet to pay him.

"Mkay," America hummed in response and fished his wallet out of the back pocket of his jeans.

Thumbing through the bills, America pulled 100£ from his wallet and handed it to the bartender before he began dragging England out the door. England, who was still resentful and vexed from earlier, refused to make it easy for America and began to struggle.  Planting his feet firmly on the ground and digging his heels in, England would not allow himself to be dragged without a fight.  The bartender was perplexed when the lad made no attempt to collect his sizable chunk of change.  He couldn't imagine why the bloke would be so nonchalant about 20£; he had patrons go absolutely mental over less than a pound before.

"Oi, lad, don't you want your change?" The bartender called to America's retreating back.

"Dude, what change?" America asked obliviously as he looked over his shoulder at the approaching bartender.

"This change, you twit," the bartender said as he handed the 20£ to America.

"Dude, that's your tip," America replied and pushed the money back into the bartender's outstretched hand as the bartender merely stared incredulously at America.

"Isn't it enough?" America asked when the man made no attempt to take the money, and America begrudgingly hypothesized that it probably wasn't since England's currency was currently worth more than his.

Sighing in resignation, America extracted another 20£ from his wallet and shoved it toward the man who seemed even more perplexed by the gesture than he had previously been.  America put his wallet back into the pocket of his jeans and suddenly slung the struggling England over his shoulders as he proceeded to make his way to the rental car.  America grumbled in annoyance to himself as his stomach rumbled painfully, and he could feel the beginnings of a hunger headache coming on since he only had time to grab a family sized bag of chips and a liter of soda to drink on the way to England's.  England weakly pounded his fists against America's back and demanded to be put down immediately, but America did his best to ignore him and control his temper for England.  He didn't want a fight; he just wanted to get England safely home and finally eat something. 

After grabbing his keys and unlocking the door, America gently maneuvered England into the passenger seat and buckled his seatbelt.  England bit his tongue hard to keep a giggle from escaping his lips when America's hair tickled his cheek, and he couldn't stop himself from discretely inhaling America's comforting scent.  With a resounding thud, America shut the passenger side door and made his way over to the driver's side, where he wiggled in his seat for several minutes, trying to get as comfortable as possible.  His legs were cramped because there was not enough legroom, and his head rested uncomfortably against the roof of the car.  Sighing in annoyance, America just gave up and buckled his seatbelt.  When he noticed England starting to lean against the window, America quickly flicked on the child safety locks so that England wouldn't inadvertently fall out of the vehicle.  Shrugging off his jacket, he wadded it up into a makeshift pillow and placed it under England's head.  England grumbled incoherently before burying his face into the jacket and inhaling deeply.  Once England was situated, America started the vehicle and pulled out of the parking lot to merge onto the roadway.  There wasn't much traffic because it was well into the wee hours of the morning, and for that America was thankful.  He was starving, and they were several miles away from England's London home.

"You know, one of these days I'm gonna resign from always being the one to drag your drunk ass home," America said, a hint of annoyance evident in his tone, as he rolled his eyes while pouting and looking very put out.

"I'm surprised you haven't since I'm _irrelevant_ and _completely useless_ ; I wouldn't want to burden you by being a _liability_ ," England muttered sarcastically with a harsh, bitter edge to his voice.

"Haha.  It's a hero's job to help those in distress," America replied insensitively.

"Some hero you are, you bloody fucking wanker.  This is all your fault to begin with, you git.  If it wasn't for you, I wouldn't even be in this situation," England said acerbically as he reluctantly lifted his head from America's jacket to glare daggers at him. 

"Hey, I am the greatest hero ever!  Just for that, I'm not even gonna talk to you, ya big meanie," America said childishly.

_Someday, I'll be a hero that you can be proud of.  I'll be the greatest hero ever!  I'll be even greater than the ones from all those stories that you used to tell me as a child.  You'll see, England._

"Heh, I see you're making more promises you can't keep," England said bitterly.

_"I'll always luv yew and need yew, big brother Engwand," baby America said resolutely as he tightly hugged England.  His little colony's big, blue eyes seemed to radiate sincerity.  And, in that moment, England had believed every single word._

"I'll show you," America said passionately.  

England didn't bother to reply and simply buried his face back into America's jacket. He was tired and sick, and he just didn't have the energy to argue anymore.  If he closed his eyes, he could pretend America was holding him and that the bumps along the road, which jostled him every now and then, were not because of potholes.  But, it was actually America rocking him gently back and forth as he was slowly lulled to sleep.  After all, it would be so easy to pretend; he'd dreamed about it many times before, among other things that would make him blush upon wakening.  America subtly glanced over at England, and his glaze softened just a bit.  He wanted to say _something_ , _anything_ , but he knew he couldn't.  Determined to give England the silent treatment, which admittedly he wasn't very successful at doing, America fiddled with the radio dial and stared straight ahead at the narrow, empty stretch of roadway.  An eclectic mix of drums, guitars, and keyboard blared through the speakers.

"You were working as a waitress in a cocktail bar, when I met you.  I picked you out; I shook you up and turned you around, turned you into someone new," the singer crooned through the speakers of the rented, compact mini car.

In the small, cramped space of the vehicle, it almost felt intimate, and it was as if the singer was singing the lyrics directly to him.  Usually, America preferred larger vehicles, but Europe's roads were much smaller when compared to the large expanse of seemingly endless American highways that stretched as far as the eye could see.  But, he couldn't deny that something about this felt nice.  Apparently England thought so too because he seemed to perk up slightly as this particular song began to play, and he started to belatedly sing along.  America smiled despite himself.  England really did have a beautiful voice, from the dulcet tones to that deep, rich baritone, to the creepy voice he used for his magic.

"You were just a little savage living in mud huts when I met you.  I picked you up; I taught you everything.  And turned you around, turned you into someone new," England said in a faraway voice as his eyes glazed over in what America would mistakenly misinterpret as drunkenness, though he would later realize it had been nostalgia.

"Um, dude, those aren't the right words," America said, snickering at what he perceived to be just England's drunken antics and as usual failing to grasp the deeper meaning behind them.  At least England wasn't bitterly rambling on about how America had fucked him over during his revolution, and for that America was thankful.

"Now, almost 240 years later on, you've got the world at your feet.  Success has been so easy for you.  But don't forget it's me who put you where you are now, and I can put you back there too," England _sang_ while sounding far more sober than he had previously been as he stared intently at America with a challenging glint in his guarded green eyes.

On the next verse, America thought England did pretty well; he only got the number wrong and added an extra almost.  Although America felt a slight suspicion niggling at the back of his mind that there was something more to this than mere drunken karaoke and the intense look England was giving him seemed to bolster this sentiment, he chose to ignore it.  At least England wasn't crying, and they were only a few miles from England's house.  Once they arrived, America could fall into the well practiced routine he had devised to be solely devoted to handling the drunken Englishman.  Then, he could _finally_ eat something.  He hoped England hadn't really gotten rid of that 24 hours McDonald's like he had threatened to do when he and America had gotten into a fight over England's cooking skills or more accurately his lack thereof.

"Don't, don't you want me?  You know I can't believe it when I hear that you won't see me.  Don't, don't you want me?  You know I don't believe you when you say that you don't need me," England continued to _sing_ with his voice catching on the last part, and he began to softly cry as a phantom image of that horrible document, which he had read earlier, vividly flashed across his mind.

"Hey, you finally got the words right.  I guess your hearing isn't as bad as I thought, old man," America teased in order to distract himself from his hunger pangs.  But upon hearing what sounded like stifled sobbing, America glanced over at England only to realize the Brit was crying.

_Aw dammit, I must have jinxed myself; America thought as he gazed sympathetically down at England._

After quickly scanning the roadway to ensure conditions were safe to do so, America turned on cruise control and hesitantly wrapped an arm around England's heaving shoulders.  America felt his heart lurch when the Brit flinched and attempted to pull away from the gesture.  Subconsciously, England clutched America's jacket closer to his chest as he desperately tried to retain a stiff upper lip.  He hated crying in front of anyone, especially America of all people.  He wouldn't be surprised if America began to tease him mercilessly about it and told everyone who would listen about it.  But to his surprise, America shifted closer to England and only held him tighter.

"Aw, England, don't cry," America said soothingly as he gently rested his chin against England's head and unconsciously kissed the soft, but messy blond locks of hair.

"Bugger off," England said grumpily as his face flushed even redder, though luckily he could just blame it on the alcohol.

Although he desperately wanted to be comforted by America, England just couldn't get his mind off of that accursed document.  It was like a poison ivy rash that constantly made its presence known, and it refused to be soothed until it ran its course.  He knew it was best to just leave it alone, but he couldn't stop himself from digging it further.  England tried once again to free himself from America's hold, and this time, he finally succeeded in pushing America away or rather America allowed himself to be pushed.  The tension was so thick that it could permeate even America's obliviousness; even the radio seemed to pause as static suddenly sounded through the speakers.  After a bit of static, the song continued to play, and England felt compelled to continue singing along.  The lyrics were just so fitting, and it was almost as if the song had waited just for him in order to help him articulate his feelings.  England only hoped that it was getting through to America.  Sometimes that boy could be dimmer than a black hole and twice as thick when it came to reading the atmosphere.  Steeling his nerves, England took a deep, shuddering breath and began to sing the next lyrics as America just stared intensely at him.

"It's much too late to find, when you think you've changed your mind, you'd better change it back or we will both be sorry," England demanded sadly while fully turning in his seat to glare at America as he jabbed his index finger against America's chest for good measure.

"England," America said strangely as he gingerly grabbed the wrist, which England had previously been using to jab him in the chest.

It looked like he wanted to say something.  England held his breath as he gazed intently at America and impatiently waited for America to say whatever it was that he looked like he had wanted to say.  America opened and closed his mouth several times before he trailed off into incoherent mumblings.  He tried again, but his mouth just simply continued to open and close around wordless breaths until America looked like a fish out of water that was struggling to breath.  Under normal circumstances, it would have been comical, and England would have teased him about it until they had dissolved into what England had considered to be affectionate bickering.  But, now it just put England further on edge because he now had no idea where they stood anymore.  If that document was anything to go by, it appeared they stood separately with their backs to one another.  Although he hated to admit it and often told America otherwise, it was one of the last things he wanted.  Really, he never wanted it to happen at all.

_Just stay with me!  Don't leave me, please..._

The thoughts ran so frequently through his mind that they had evolved from a mantra in times of insecurity to becoming a seemingly permanent fixture in England's mind.  England desperately wanted to inquire about where they stood, but he didn't know how to do so, nor did he want to be the first one to do so.  It was times like these where America's bluntness would have been a breath of fresh air, but it seems the lad was keeping mum about it.  Normally England would have praised the boy for showing some restraint, which in itself was an occurrence as rare as seeing _Halley's Comet_ where America was concerned.  Of course the boy holds out when I need him most; England thought pessimistically.  Through it all, the song continued playing in the background, and England found himself echoing the sentiment aloud, though it was solely meant for a certain nation rather than an unspecified someone who previously worked as a waitress in a cocktail bar.

"Don't you want me, America?  Don't you want me, Alfred?  Don't you want me, my baby boy?  Don't you want me, oh my sweet lad?” England murmured softly, hesitantly, breathily. 

America was clearly confused; that much England was certain of.  He could see the confusion flittering across those blue eyes that he never stopped loving.  In that moment, he was finally able to admit that he never stopped loving their owner either.  America's eyes began to shift, and England swiftly closed his eyes.  He didn't want to see hate or indifference in them; he wasn't sure if he could take it.  But, at the same time, he had to know.  He kept the eye closest to America closed, but the other eye opened slightly and cast several nervous, furtive glances at the America.  America for his part, didn't know how to process this or how to respond.  He wasn't even sure why England would keep bringing up the revolution after all these years, whenever he had too much to drink.  America thought they were over this, but apparently England didn't.  He also wondered if England had only been referring to the past or if that was a precursor for something ominous that was tied to the present as well.

_If anyone should be confused about being wanted, it should be me.  England always acts put out and annoyed when he's with me.  He had even questioned the validity and further continuation of their Special Relationship, off the cuff mind you, when things didn't go his way.  Sometimes I wonder if he hates me, and sometimes I believe he does._

Before his thoughts could drift further into uncertainty, America suddenly realized that England hadn't gotten those lyrics wrong due to drunkenness, but he had intentionally been trying to _patronize_ him.  America felt the anger course through his veins; it was just like England to not take him seriously, no matter the situation.  Although he often teased England about being better than him, he really just wanted England to _finally_ see him as an equal.  He knew it shouldn't bother him as much as it did when England apparently still did not share that sentiment, but America couldn't deny that it hurt, a lot.  As England watched the myriad of emotions play across America's face, he began to wring his hands together before desperately fisted America's jacket in an attempt to ground himself once again.

"I was working as a waitress in a cocktail bar; that much is true.  But, even then I knew I'd find a much better place, either with or without you," a female voice began to confidently sing.

And in that moment, America was suddenly struck by just how relatable these lyrics were to him.  He may have been all alone and living in mud huts when he met England, but even then he knew he would one day move on to bigger and better things, with or without England's assistance.  He knew England had helped pave the way, and for that he was grateful.  But, he had worked hard to get where he was today, and he had endured many hardships along the way.  Even though he didn't experience as much as the older countries, it did not negate the validity of the experiences he did have. 

"The five years we have had have been such good times," the woman continued to sing. 

America sat rigidly in his seat as he allowed those words to wash over him.  Those times he had spent with England, before things had soured, hadn't been all bad.  In fact, he had many fond memories of his time with England.  America smiled despite himself, and his eyes glazed over as a string of memories permeated his conscious awareness.


	5. Treasures of Time

_England stood proudly, his brown suit swaying majestically in the wind and making him look regal, as he smiled radiantly while holding his hand out to a young America who peered up at him curiously.  England's eyes and smile were so bright and beautiful that they could put any precious jewel or picturesque landscape to shame, and America loved and cherished them both.  He had once loved everything about England._

_"Let's go home," England had said while gazing fondly down at young America._

_And, England had made it a home instead of the vast, empty wilderness that America was used to seeing.  England had kept him safe and happy.  England had made him feel loved and taken care of, and he was never lonely at least when England was around._

_"Okay," America smiled adoringly and took England's hand happily as they made their way along the sunlit path, which was perfumed by the flowering plants and fruit trees that lined the gravel road to their home..._

_Thump, thump, thump echoed throughout the house as dirtied rabbit paws pounded against the freshly cleaned, hardwood flooring._

_"Haha, Hop Hop, wait up," a childish voice yelled gleefully, as his little blond cowlick bobbed rhythmically in an excited tempo when its owner scampered to catch up to his white and gray bunny friend._

_Muddy feet came to an abrupt halt as the towering, imposing figure of the angry Brit loomed over him._

_"America, what did I tell you about running through the house with muddy feet?  I know I've told you to wear your shoes like a gentleman and then remove them before stepping past the threshold into the house," England chastised the young boy._

_"But…,” young America began, but he was cut off by England upon the Brit's noticing of the bunny who had reentered the room and seemed to be waiting for America to chase him._

_"America, what is that doing in here?  I know I've told you that animals are not allowed inside the house and must stay outside," the Briton began to lecture._

_"But, Hop Hop is my friend," young America said softly as he demurely gazed at the floorboards in shame.  He was upset that England was mad at him, and he didn't want England to be mad at him._

_"No.  No buts, young man.  Out with him," England said sternly as he gazed pointedly at the bunny before gesturing towards the door._

_"Pwease, Engwand," America said, gazing up at England with that kicked puppy expression of his that the boy appeared to have a natural affinity for.  And, England had nearly caved._

_"No, America.  And, it'll be no supper for you if he isn't outside by the count of three," England said while trying to maintain a stiff upper lip._

_America's lower lip wobbled; tears shined in his baby blue eyes.  And, the telltale hic alerted England that he had perhaps been a tad bit too harsh on the poor lad._

_"Come now, lad.  Maybe I was a bit too harsh, yeah?" England had acquiesced, and America's tears had instantly dried up._

_And, acquiesced England did as the three of them had had their supper outside on the porch that night.  England had sat on the porch swing with his legs crossed in a gentlemanly fashion as he carefully balanced his plate and teacup on his knee, while America was comfortably nestled against his side as the boy happily munched his supper.  Hop Hop sat under the swing as far away from the plate of food, which England had reluctantly given it, as possible.  At first, England had been baffled.  The bunny had cautiously sniffed the food before making some weird facial expressions and hopping away from the food dish as quickly as possible.  England had reasoned that the uncultured sod had just never experienced such fine British cuisine before._

_Later that night, England had put America to bed with only a bit of trouble since the lad had wanted a bedtime story.  But, England had told him he had important work to do.  England had then stayed up until the early hours of the morning to knit a stuffed bunny for America since Hop Hop was still not permitted to be in the house._

_"What color buttons do you want for his eyes?" England had asked the delighted young boy after breakfast as they looked through a trinket box, which was filled with stray buttons that England couldn't bring himself to throw out._

_"I want these ones," America exclaimed excitedly as he grabbed a pair of green buttons, even though Hop Hop's eyes were a dark brown, which bordered on black._

_"Ah, it's to match the foliage he likes to consume," England had said just to have something to say._

_"Hey, you're right, Engwand!  But, I picked them because they are the color of your eyes.  Don't tell Hop Hop or the others because it'll hurt their feelings, but I love you best, big brother Engwand!" America had whispered sincerely into England's ears._

_"Oh my sweet, sweet, baby boy," England had said affectionately and a bit misty-eyed as he was overcome with emotion.  America had laughed as England scooped him up in a fierce hug, which he had eagerly returned..._

_America's eyes widened in surprise, as he peered down at the wooden, rectangular box, which was tightly clutched to his chest.  The box was decorated with red and blue checkered patterns on the sides and front of the container, and four golden-tipped spears stood tall on each corner.  The box appeared to open from the top, and upon closer inspection, it stored toy soldiers inside.  America almost couldn't believe that England would give him such an awesome gift._

_"No way, is it really okay for me to have it?" Young America exclaimed excitedly._

_"Of course.  I made it for you, America," England said fondly with a smile gracing his features, while glancing over his shoulder to look at the excited young colony._

_"Whoa!  This looks so cool!  Thanks England!" Young America said happily as he smiled up at England with his bright, blue eyes radiating gratitude._

_At this, England turned around to fully face the young boy and chuckled to himself at how delighted the lad seemed to be over the gift._

_"Take good care of it, and be careful when you use a hammer," England responded and glanced down at his arm, which was resting in a sling._

_"Wow!  There are various soldiers.  They all have different faces," America said in a mixture of awe and delight as he examined each soldier, while turning it this way and that in his hand to get a good look at each one._

_"They are specially made so...," England began and trailed off as he smiled and kneeled down to be at eye level with America._

_The soldiers would quickly become America's favorite, most cherished toy, and he and England would spend hours strategizing and playing make-believe with them..._

_England smiled softly down at the small boy who appeared to be utterly fascinated by his surroundings.  England couldn't blame the lad; America had such beautiful scenery.  The sky appeared a vivid blue against the backdrop of the majestic, rolling, green hills that eventually morphed into impressive mountainous terrain.  A smattering of dandelions grew in abstract patches across the sea of green grass.  A plethora of wildflowers dotted the greenery, adding unique splotches of color to the land.  Busy, bees buzzed studiously about to pollinate daisies, wild violets, and the pink and purple New England Asters._

_"Engwand, Engwand, look," baby America babbled happily as England sat crossed-legged on the soft, green grass and cradled the babe in one arm while supporting his back with the other as the child wiggled, grabbed, and pointed at a blue monarch butterfly, which fluttered just outside of his reach._

_"Now, America, be very still and quiet or you'll startle it.  It's a very timid and easily spooked creature, lad," England quietly advised._

_"Like Canada?" America asked innocently._

_"Who?" England asked as he rubbed his chin in contemplation.  He had an inkling that the name should have somehow been familiar to him, but he just couldn't remember its significance._

_"Canada, my brother.  He lives up north, and France visits him," America said as quietly as he could while freeing himself from England's arms and inching his chubby fingers closer to the butterfly now perched atop a flowering shrub._

_"Oh, right him," England said embarrassedly as a slight hint of a blush graced his cheeks at having forgotten him again._

_America crept closer, his head mere inches from it, as he paused and tried not to impatiently grab it.  As the tip of his finger made contact with its wing, the butterfly took flight.  America closed one eye and held his breath as the blue butterfly hovered around him before it landed on top of his head.  However, before the boy could rejoice about taming the butterfly, a horrible thought distracted him._

_"You won't forget about me too, like you do about him, right England?" America asked as a stray tear escaped his closed eye and trailed down his chubby, flushed cheek._

_"Never, America.  I could never forget about you, my sweet baby boy," England said resolutely._

_As England began to get up to coddle his charge, the butterfly startled and flew away only to land on America's nose this time.  America went cross-eyed as he attempted to look at the butterfly, and his nose scrunched cutely as its legs tickled his button-like nose.  The young boy began to smile, but his face quickly morphed into a fearful expression as he stared into the compound eyes of the butterfly, which extended its proboscis as its mustache-like, scaly palps attempted to determine whether or not the boy’s nose was food._

_"Wah," America wailed fearfully as he launched himself at England, and he nearly knocked the island nation over._

_England allowed a guffaw to spill from his lips, and tears of mirth shined in his eyes due to the absurdity of the situation.  America, who fearlessly and effortlessly swung around a fully-grown buffalo, was scared of a mere butterfly.  This was too rich, and England's frame continued to shake with laughter even as the boy cuddled closer to him and buried his face in England's neck.  England hadn't laughed like that in ages, but it felt good to do so._

_"Come now, lad, I won't allow that mean, old monarch to tyrannize you," England jested mirthfully while gesturing to the butterfly, as he gazed affectionately down at the young boy hiding in his arms.  All the while, England just barely managed to stifle another laugh that was bubbling up in his throat, as to not further upset the lad._

_"You promise, Engwand?" America asked hopefully as he worried his plump, bottom lip between perfectly straight, white teeth and glanced fearfully at the monarch butterfly who went back to gorging itself on nectar without a care to the distressed young boy it left in its wake._

_"Absolutely," England responded with a snicker that luckily America was becoming too content to notice._

_"I'll hold you to that then, Engwand," young America had said seriously._

_"You do that, lad," England had relied fondly.  And, his chest warmed at the prospect that not only would America still need him, but he would make sure of it..._

_"Then I'm going back to my country now," England said as he glanced over his shoulder at young America and paused at the threshold._

_"What already?" America asked in confusion._

_It had seemed like England had just gotten here before he was leaving again.  And, then, the gravity of the situation had finally sunken in.  England was leaving; America felt as if he couldn't bear it._

_"No!  No!  I won't let you go back," America yelled in a distressed, broadening on hysterical, manner as he grabbed onto England's coat with both hands as if to hold England permanently in place, although he only managed to force England to turn and face him._

_"I'm afraid to be all by myself in such a huge place.  I'll be lonely, and I'll miss your hugs," America pleaded as he clutched at England even tighter._

_"I'm sorry; I've had that experience too.  So, I understand well how you feel.  I'll come back, so work hard and become stronger," England said, bending down to be at America's level as he began to consolingly stroke the back of America's head with his hand._

_"Okay," America had tearfully and reluctantly agreed._

_Several days after England's departure, America found a package, which was addressed to him from England, on his doorstep.  America quickly tore into the package and peered at the contents.  Inside was a handwritten note sitting on top of a soft blanket, which appeared to be solely knitted by hand.  America grabbed the blanket first, displacing the note, and clutched it to his chest when he discovered that it faintly smelled of England before he began to read the note._

_“America, I have spent hours knitting this, and my hands have touched every single thread that went into the construction of this blanket.  If you wrap it snugly around yourself, it will be like I'm hugging you.  I miss you, my dear boy.  Work hard and become strong.  Love England,” the note had said..._

_"Oh, what's with the suit?  It looks expensive.  I won't need it since I won't wear it," America asked while frowning in confusion as he held the suit between his leather-gloved hands._

_"No!  You haven't been dressing well lately.  I'll have a problem if you don't dress properly," England said adamantly as he thrust the suit in America's direction._

_"What's the problem?  I like what I'm wearing now," America said as he glanced down at his attire._

_He was wearing a light grayish white, high-collared shirt, which exposed a good portion of his neck and chest, with a brown leather vest over it.  His trousers were loose-fitting and covered by matching leather chaps.  A holstered pistol hung from one of his belt loops, and black cowboy boots covered his feet._

_"See?  Like I said, you look nicer in clothes like that," England said as he smoothed down the back of the suit while he gave America a light nudge toward the full-length mirror._

_America's spine tingled or really anywhere England's hand had lingered.  He fiddled with the suit in order to disguise the shudder that threatened to run up his spine when England touched him.  England stepped back and folded his arms across his chest as he admired his handiwork, while smirking at America.  Inwardly, America mourned the loss of contact, while England privately thought the lad looked rather dashing in such attire._

_"What, this isn't comfortable.  I'll wear it on special occasions," America said uncertainly, while making a sweeping gesture, his fingertips just barely skimming above England's lower abdomen as he did so._

_"Then make every day a special occasion.  You really are quite the handsome lad.  It would be a pity to not showcase it," England said sincerely._

_America felt a pleasant warmth in his chest and a coil of arousal deep in his belly as his cheeks flushed from the praise. As he turned to the side to see whether or not England was having him on, his hip just barely grazing England's outer thigh, they both sucked in a breath at the contact._

_"Maybe," America just barely managed to choke out as he pulled the jacket of the suit tighter around his waist._

_"See, so nice," England murmured into America's ear with his breath tickling it before England slung an arm around America's broad shoulders._

_America couldn't tell whether England was referring to the attire, himself, or their proximity..._

The radio began to splutter, and then harsh static blared through the speakers once again.  If he had had the presence of mind to do so, America would have wondered why the reception was so poor and then teased England for being technologically behind the times.  As it was, America was still too lost in his thoughts and remained eerily and usually silent as he attempted to sort out his feelings for England.  He had loved England; England had once been his everything.  England had left him; England had wronged and betrayed him.  England had flirted with Europe and others, while America had remained isolated.  They had attempted to reconcile and became allies.  He cared deeply for England; he felt something else for his former guardian nation that America had trouble articulating.  England, for his part, sat so stiffly in his seat that he almost resembled an inanimate object.  He seemed to be holding his breath and waiting for an answer that was so significant that he would not allow even the minutest of sounds to detract from its clarity.  England's anxiety increased exponentially when America became unnaturally quiet, and he glanced over at America only to find an unfocused blue gaze.  However, as if to assuage his nerves, the radio began to clearly play the next lyrics.

"I still love you," America incoherently mouths in time with the singer, and the bewilderment on his face does not bode well where England is concerned.

When America spoke, England strained his ears to hear him properly, but he just couldn't decipher the incoherent murmurings, no matter how desperately he wanted and needed to do so.  England's thoughts run a million miles per minute, and panic sets in his gut like a lead weight, pulling him deeper into its clutches, until he only has the strength to barely endure it and stave off a full blown anxiety attack.  _Don't you want me?_ He tries to speak, but the words are stuck too deeply in his throat, and his tongue feels heavy and lolls uselessly in his mouth.  Nonetheless, England's gaze once again flickers from the window to America, and his eyes pleadingly urge him to just answer the question already.  But, America continues to stare vacantly ahead and remains silent before realization floods his gaze, as if he has just experienced some great epiphany.  America quickly glances at England before refocusing his gaze back to the nearly vacant roadway in front of him, as a look of resignation settles upon his face.  Suddenly a horrible thought disentangles itself from the chaos wreaking havoc in England's mind.

_Was the thought of America wanting him so preposterous that it was inconceivable?_

"But now I think it's time I live my life on my own.  I guess it's just what I must do," the singer sang and _inadvertently_ triggered America into further musings.

That thought had been true during his revolution, but now he wondered if it still held validly, even after all these years.  England seemed to be apathetic, inconvenienced, and annoyed by him.  It would also help his relationships with certain others, had America not been attempting to balance the needs and wants of his own country while secretly protecting and promoting the ones of England's as well.  America seriously began to wonder if he should employ this tactic again.  However, that line of thinking was cut short when America realized he was about to pass England's house completely.  Slamming the brakes on the thought both physically and metaphorically as he almost missed the turn to England's driveway, America sharply turned the wheel in the opposite direction to pull into England's driveway, which was guarded by an imposing gate.

 


	6. Deviation Or Routine

America pressed the illuminated button to roll down the window and typed the code, which he had memorized, into the access control keypad, ensconced in intricate brickwork.  The wrought iron, privacy gate groaned in protest, stalling for a fraction of a second, before begrudgingly allowing entrance.  Once America drove through, it slammed shut with a finality that America hadn't associated with England since England's piracy days.  Marveling at the landscaping along the way, America maneuvered the vehicle up the paved stone driveway. 

Two large, red rose bushes in full bloom framed the gate on each side.  The lawn was neatly trimmed, and the grass was a deep, rich shade of green like England's eyes when they darkened with that mischievous glint of his, which typically occurred during their friendly bickering or when they both got a bit tipsy and in the mood to prank the other nations.  Several English bluebells lined the perimeter of the drive, blending seamlessly together like a fine painter's brush stroke.  Bloodgood London Planetrees stood regally like guards ushering one up the drive and providing shade for the bluebells that grew beneath them.  An expertly carved stone bench, which overlooked a small fountain, was covered by a soft, thick blanket with the Union Jack flag on it, and the bench was placed inside a wooden shade trellis.  Climbing up the two wooden support pillars and weaving through the crisscross backing, as if they were intricately embroidered there, English Tea Roses in various colors perfumed the air.  Dwarf English boxwood served as accent plants and were placed in handwoven baskets upon England's porch.  Even in the dim lighting of the vehicle's headlights and the motion detecting solar lights that lined the drive, one could tell that every plant had been immaculately selected, planted, and tended.  England always did have a thing for gardening, which America often teased him about.

As America pulled the vehicle into the widest part of England's driveway, he heaved a great sigh when he glanced over at England via his peripheral vision.  England sat almost unseeingly in his seat as his pessimistic thoughts, or practical realism as England often referred to them as, continued to torment him.  England felt sick.  His hands were clammy, and a migraine, the likes of which he had never experienced before, was beginning to pound in the back of his skull.  His stomach churned ominously, tying itself in knots, as he made himself sicker with worry.  His chest felt tight, and breathing was difficult.  He tried to tell himself that it was just the alcohol, but America's silence was a much more potent poison than any alcohol he could ever imbibe.  America cut the headlights and shifted the vehicle into park before turning off the ignition.  Wordlessly, America exited the vehicle and made his way over to the passenger side to get the door for England and help him out of the car.

"Let's go, Artie," Alfred says as he scoops Arthur up into his strong arms.

One hand supports Arthur's back, while the other holds him securely under his legs, only centimeters from being able to brush his groin against Alfred's hand.  And suddenly the matter is much more personal, and he realizes he doesn't just want, or if he was to be completely honest with himself, _need_ , only America to want him.  But, he needs Alfred as well and in more ways than one.  Using his hip to close the door, America pressed the lock button on the keychain before carrying England to his door.  Upon reaching it, Alfred jams a hand into his pants and fishes around in the pocket of his jeans to search for the spare key to England's London home.  The low rise jeans slide a bit lower with the weight of his hand, exposing a tan strip of skin, fine blond curls, and a portion of his stars and stripes boxers.

"Ah," Alfred says triumphantly when his fist closes over the hard, smooth metal of the lone spare key.

The sound sends a rush of blood and a pleasant tingle straight to Arthur's cock, and his face flushes in embarrassment, though luckily he can just blame it on the alcohol.  After prodding around the hole for a few seconds, America inserts the key and unlocks the door.  Balancing England slightly against his hip and pulling him closer to his chest, America uses his free hand to unlock England's front door.  Once the two had passed through the threshold, America used his foot to slam the front door shut.  The hem of his shirt catches on the lock's protrusion as he attempted to secure the lock without jostling England, lest he throw up on him again.  Alfred cringed at the memory.  Bending down slightly into a squat and using his teeth and tongue to slide the deadbolt lock into place and pull his shirt free, England's eyes fixated on America's mouth.  The lad was certainly _resourceful_ , and the action aroused England immensely, so much so that it was almost enough to distract him from his emotional turmoil, but not quite.  The wreckage was too severe to be overlooked, no matter how much he wanted to forget or remain in denial.  He wanted America and Alfred, all of them.  And, he wanted them to want him in the same way too.

_Why was that so much to ask?_

"Hold on tightly, and don't let me go," America says softly, slowly as he urges England to wrap his arms around America's neck so that England won't fall when America began to ascend the stairs, which creaked loudly under his weight, in the eerie silence of the semidarkness of the house.

England sorted to himself.  Oh, how he had always wanted to do just that.  But, look where that had gotten him; England thought bitterly.  Nonetheless, he quickly and overeagerly, if America's sharp, but strained attempted inhalation was anything to go by, clung to America's neck while pressing himself flush against the American.  With the combination of the gentle swaying of America's hips as he moved and his comforting scent, England closed his eyes and sighed in contentment as his body relaxed against America who steadfastly made his way toward England's bedroom.  Luckily, the door had been left slightly ajar so that he was easily able to nudge it open with his foot.  America winced at the scuff mark it would leave behind when the door banged against the wall.  He had tried to be careful, but sometimes he really underestimated the consequences of his strength.  The sound startled England, who opened his eyes only to find them in his bedroom, which caused a hot flush to spread like ivy across his face and up to the tips of his ears.

"You can let me go now, England," America said as he attempted to lower the Englishman onto the crisp linen sheets of his bed, but England held fast, only clinging tighter to America and wrapping his legs around America's waist for good measure.

_No!  England's mind screamed.  Logically, the Brit knew that he should just let America go, and he had tried.  Oh, how he had tried, but he just couldn't.  Why couldn't America or even Alfred see that they belonged together? After all, there would be no America without England._

America huffed in what England could only guess to be annoyance.  But, due to their close proximity, the gesture felt intimate as America's hot breath ghosted over the sensitive shell of England's ear in mimicry of a teasing caress.  England shuddered despite himself and pressed closer to the American.  America halfheartedly attempted to gently extract the Brit from himself, but he decided it was too much effort and just gave in and allowed the Brit to cling even tighter to him.  If America was honest with himself, it felt kind of nice.  And, it was not like he hadn't imagined what it could feel like before in the hazy realm between fantasy and reality.  However, in his imagination, England wasn't drunk, and he had a full belly that wasn't currently gnawing itself in painful hunger, which he really should tend to.  Plus, England would never feel that way about him, nor would he ever allow this kind of intimacy when sober.  And, America knew he should respect that, as any good hero would.

"Fine, Arthur, have it your way.  Make things harder than they need to be," Alfred said gruffly through gritted teeth.

Suddenly, he shifted the Brit to be slung over one arm, the sudden jostling causing the Briton to squawk in indignation.  Alfred spared him a cursory glance of concern before America paid it no mind and began stumbling about, seemingly searching for something.  After a bit of impatient searching, Alfred finally found what he was looking for and placed the rubbish bin next to England's bed in case he had to throw up.  A glass of cold water and some paracetamol was placed on the bedside table to help England cope with his inevitable hangover.  When England started to lightly hit his back and make muffled sounds of protest, America maneuvered England so that he was cradling him to his breastbone like one would to a small child.  England shifted a bit before quieting down and allowing America to carry him over to his bed once again.

_Let's try this again; America thought wryly._

"C'mon, England, let's get you into bed so you can rest and sleep this off," America cajoled while making sure to lower his voice several octaves so England wouldn't complain about how obnoxious he was.

England huffed, whether in affirmation or negation Alfred wasn't sure.  Shrugging, America pulled the covers back and gently placed England onto the bed so that he was propped up into a sitting position by several pillows supported by the headboard.  Arthur felt the bed dip as America sat on the edge and reached for his legs.  America rested them over his lap and began to remove each of England's boots.  Two loud thuds resonated throughout the quiet, stillness of the room as Alfred dropped the boots onto the floor.  Arthur's heart thundered in his chest, and his cock twitched in excitement when America reached for his belt.  His breath hitched, and he shivered involuntarily at the erotic sound his belt made as it was slid through his belt loops.  The belt met the same fate as the shoes, and Alfred hastily kicked the items under England's bed so that England wouldn't inadvertently trip over them when he had to get up.  Once that was done, America rearranged the pillows and maneuvered England so that he was lying on his side and facing the direction of the trash can.  Then, Alfred got off the bed and pulled the covers over England's slender frame, while making sure to tuck them neatly under his chin.  England had been surprisingly cooperative throughout the ordeal, and America figured he was just tired.

_He was an old man after all_ ; America thought fondly, but wisely kept it to himself.

"Want anything before I go?" Alfred asked, peering down into England's eyes as the Brit rolled onto his back to look at Alfred.

_You_ , England's traitorous mind quickly supplied without a moment's hesitation.  And, suddenly his thoughts drifted back to his unanswered question.  It was clear that he wanted America; his rapidly thudding heart and flushed, swollen prick resting heavily against his stomach were evidence enough of that.  But, did America and Alfred want him; he wondered as he further agitated the wound.  By now, the wound was raw, and he should really just leave it alone.  But, he found that he couldn't; he wouldn't because he needed to know.  Alfred, incorrectly interpreting England's silence to mean no, made to leave.  England quickly grabbed a fistful of America's shirt to pull him back, causing America to overbalance and begin to fall towards him.  At the last minute, Alfred caught himself landing with a hand on both sides of England's head.  For a moment, they simply stared at each other, their breaths mingling together as neither made a move to pull away or dislodge the other from his position.  Arthur couldn't deny how wonderful or right their close proximity felt.  But, apparently, Alfred did not share the sentiment as America began to push himself up onto his knees to leave again.


	7. Taking Risks

"Wait; don't go! Don't leave me! Don't you want me? Why?" England's mind screamed as his lips uttered the thoughts completely unfiltered.

America sighed loudly, his breath fluttering his bangs with the force of the exhalation. Most of the time, England would just rant about how much America had fucked him over and how he was an ungrateful git. Then he would put up as much of a fight as he was able in his current condition and make the process of putting him to bed as difficult as possible, just to spite America. But, sometimes England got clingy and just wanted to be held. During those times, Alfred would indulge him, staying at the very least until England had fallen asleep. But, he always made sure to be gone before England awakened, since he didn't want to deal with the morning awkwardness of England waking to find them huddled together in his bed. Sometimes he wondered what it would be like to wake up, cuddled together in England's arms, but he quickly shook his head to rid himself of the thought. England would never allow that, and America knew better than to hope. So, America simply fell into a routine and stretched out onto his back to lie next to England, a sliver of cool linen separating them. England eyed the space between them with apprehension, distaste, and resigned longing. But, he made no move to get closer, attempting to content himself with verbal vitriol and distressed fussing as he shifted this way and that only to end up in the same position he had been before. America gazed down at England with a soft, yet thoughtful expression upon his face.

_He could let his guard down and indulge both himself and England. Besides, England wouldn't remember it when he sobers up anyway. He never did._

"C'mon, Iggy. Don't get yourself all worked up again. You need to rest and sleep this off. Turn over," America demanded softly.

"I'll do as I please, you git," England muttered petulantly, but he still allowed America to shift him onto his side to face the rubbish bin.

_How symbolic_ , England thought pessimistically.

England went rigid as he suddenly felt America curl around him. With a bit of shifting and accommodation on both their parts, they settled into a comfortable position. America grabbed the duvet, which had slid down to rest snugly against England's waist, and pulled it fully over England's body to once again tuck under England's chin, just like England used to do for America when America was small. England mumbled something indecipherable and shifted closer, his round backside brushing against America's groin. America sucked in a deep breath and swore he could feel it even through the thick duvet between them. America bit his lip. He was feeling that weird naughty-nice feeling that he always felt around England since the start of their _Special Relationship_. The feeling was difficult to describe; it was a strange blend of wanting to push yet hold him, wanting to tease and upset him, yet wanting to soothe and make it all good again.

"Hahaha, well goodnight, Artie," America said too loudly as he awkwardly patted England's shoulder with a little too much force.

In the near silence of the room, it almost sounded like he was yelling. Maybe he was; he couldn't be sure. He always seemed to second-guess himself around England, although he tried not to ever let it show. He had chalked it up to England's harsh put downs and his legendary ability to never be satisfied with anything America did. He wouldn't analyze it further than that; he wasn't sure if he could deal with England's reaction to the conclusion. England winced, tensing at the sudden loudness, even though he really should be used to it by now. America squeezed him gently in reassurance, and England went still again.

" 'm not sleepy", England muttered thickly.

"Do you need for me to count sheep or something cooler? You always fell asleep before I did as a kid, even when you were supposed to count, and you lost our sleep off, old man," America affectionately teased.

"Harrumph," England grouched, not bothering to dignify that inquiry with a proper response.

Not one to be deterred so easily, America rubbed his chin in contemplation.

_What to count_ , America wondered as he parsed his options.

_Counting sheep was getting boring, even if they were awesome American sheep, and he couldn't count his favorite foods._ His stomach rumbled painfully at the thought, and he was reminded that he still hadn't eaten yet. _So, what could he count?_

England shifted closer, and duvet slid down, exposing a pale, slender shoulder. America's breath hitched. England was so close and smelled so good. America smirked, suddenly overcome with a _great_ idea. Alfred rested his chin on Arthur's shoulder, his silken blond strands tickling Arthur's face, as he began running his hands up and down Arthur's sides in a _soothing_ manner.

"One sleepy England, two drowsy Arthurs, three tired Iggys, four exhausted Arties," America hummed in a soft, teasing lilt, his words spilling from his lips in hot, moist puffs of breath, spoken against the nape of his very sensitive neck like a verbal caress.

England shivered in arousal as a hot flush spread across his face. His lips parted and trembled slightly, as he tried to force out a reprimand or some witty, sarcastic remark. But, only a wordless exhalation escaped his lips.

"Cold?" America asked sweetly with a lopsided grin, cocking his head to the side like an intrigued puppy.

Alfred looked to the closet where he knew several blankets, that England probably knitted himself, rested neatly folded on the top shelf. He smiled at the thought of Arthur's nimble, dexterous fingers caressing, shaping, molding, and joining every thread in a perfect connection to make something beautiful.

_Arthur had such pretty fingers._

"No, you great oaf," England finally managed to say. But, his voice sounded oddly strained, yet husky.

With America this close to him, he felt like his body was on fire, and it was only America who could douse the flames.

America's eyes suddenly widened as he pushed England closer toward the trash can, and he quickly began to attempt to roll away from him. England mourned the loss of contact.

"Are ya gonna puke?" America asked cautiously.

England paused for a moment to take stock of himself. He didn't feel as sick as he had before, and he wasn't feeling that telltale urge to vomit.

"No, you git," England said irritably as he tried to snuggle closer to the American.

"Are you thirsty, then?" -America asked as he rolled back over to press flush against England's back, while he leaned over him to reach for the glass of water on the nightstand. -"For water," America said pointedly as he indiscreetly smelled the alcohol on England's breath and frowned disapprovingly at him.

"No," England murmured distractedly. America's weight felt so good on top of him or at least his cock thought so.

"Do ya gotta piss?" America tentatively inquired as a slight dusting of pink settled upon his cheeks.

He hoped England would say no, since it would be embarrassing to have to help him with that.

"No," England whined, frustrated and turned to face Alfred. He had almost said yes just to get some much-needed attention to his painfully hard prick.

"Arthur," America whined, drawing out the syllables in his name. "If you want or need something, ya gotta tell me. I'm not some mind reader like...," America started to say exasperatedly, but England stopped listening when America began to ramble on and on about some superhero from one of his comics that England hadn't heard of or particularly cared about.

However, America's initial words lodged themselves deeply in England's mind.

_'If you want or need something, ya gotta tell me.'_

_Would America actually listen if he did? And even if he did listen, would he understand and desire the same things as England did? I want you to kiss me, fuck me, and love me forever. It seemed unlikely. But, surely a simple kiss couldn’t be too much to ask for, right? He could ask…_

He played with the thought, running it through his mind, fantasizing, fine-tuning, refining, rationalizing it... England took a breath, opening his mouth to say something, but the words seemed stuck in his throat. America looked at him expectantly, his impatience practically a tangible entity.

“England,” America prompted.

"Kiss me," England finally murmured, though America knew he must have misheard.

Still, he thought of all the times he'd thought about kissing England or doing _more_ , and his hand moved on its own accord.

Starting at the corner of England's mouth, America used the blunt end of his nail on his index finger to begin tracing the outline of England's lips, while staring longingly into England's half-lidded green eyes.  When England looked like he was about to say something, America suddenly pressed the pad of his finger to the center of England's lips and applied a firm, upwards pressure.  The effect was instantaneous.  England closed his eyes and began to press into America's finger as if he was kissing his lips.  America's breath hitched when a tongue flicked slightly against his finger, and he moaned wantonly when England repeated the touch with firmer strokes before America regained his senses and jerked his finger away, cradling it protectively against his chest.

_England was drunk, and he didn't know what he was doing.  Heroes didn't take advantage of vulnerable people; they protected them, even if it from themselves._

England looked affronted and gazed at America with sad, misty eyes when America had wrenched his finger away as if he had been burned.  England reached his hand out, as if to grab America, but he stopped short and simply allowed his hand to hang limply between them.  America was struck by how defeated the appendage looked in that position; it matched the look in England's eyes.  America couldn't stand to see that look in those eyes that he loved so much.

_Don't you want me? They practically begged._

_Yes, America knew his own eyes and mouth wanted so badly to say, but he knew he shouldn't.  And perhaps he couldn't, not just yet anyway, or maybe he could._

America grabbed England's hand protectively in his own before bringing it to his cheek to nuzzle against it.  It felt safe, warm, and something else that America subconsciously realized, but he was unwilling to admit it aloud.  England's hand, which until this point had been limp and malleable, began stroking America's cheek before cupping it hesitantly.  The touch felt electric and jolted him out of his thoughts.  England's green eyes stared intently at America, and a torn expression overwhelmed England's face, which probably mirrored America's own.

"Don't you want me?" England asked with a harsh, yet desperate edge to his voice.  England's other hand shot out to pull him closer or push him away; he wasn't too sure of which one.  Maybe England wasn't either.

**Author's Note:**

> Please note that this is a work of fiction. While the story references real world events, circumstances, entities, etc., it in no way is an accurate portrayal of such.


End file.
